Sound of Redness
by Naisumi
Summary: And into the darkness, he whispered, "I killed him..." (the first chapter of a three-part arc) [Slash(y)--Lance/Scott]


Title: Sound of Redness  
Author: Naisumi  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Lance/Scott  
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~  
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?   
Warnings: Slash, for one thing. Uh...dark, mature/adult themes ^^; um...right. Lots-o-angst.  
  
Notes: YAY! L/S! lol This isn't that dark either...lots of Sangst (Scott + angst), though. Also, if some things seem incoherent, it's because this is written almost entirely in math class o.o  
I'm thinking of turning this into part one of a trilogy or a three-part arc with different sets of chapters per part, but I'm not sure...however, I'm not satisfied with the ending and I'm not satisfied with how Lance and Scott didn't get any action *snerk* So I might just very well use my math-ish time to write some more...  
  
Oh yes, this is dedicated to Morwen, who's a rabid Cyke-fan and whose Cykology really KICKS @$$, and to Shindo, who loves everything I do *sweatdrop* I'm not sure why, but she does. And I love her for it! Lol I love Mor for it, too *nods* but that's beside the point. So, this is for Mor (Cykage), and for Shindo who writes a really _awesome_ Todd. (I'm still fuming about my friend dissing the Todd music vid, btw ~.~)  
  
Oh, and if you're that flamer chick out there who hated PwF, *winks* This...isn't dedicated to you o.o  
Todd: What's the point of mentioning her if you're not dedicating it to her, yo?  
  
'cause I want to thank her YET AGAIN for the giggles *cracks up again* Now every time I think of the way dark fic of Playing with Fire, instead of getting all disturbed, I start laughing insanely.   
  
Todd: *stare*   
  
What?  
  
Todd: You _like_ getting flames?  
  
*giggles* They amuse me. Too bad I never get them O.o;;   
There's only that flamer chick who hated PwF. *starts laughing again* I'm gonna be happy for weeks about that one...  
  
Todd: ...You're strange, you know?  
  
*shrugs* Oh well ^.~. Bon appetit everyone! ^.~ Sangst ahead. (or, as Mor coined it, megasangst)  
  
  
Additional Notes: This is _not_ betad. Oh, and rabid SYMBOLISM abound *lol* Don't ever expect anything else from me in angsty fics, ne? ^.~  
And the chains are pretty important...also, a lot of things are worded in a particular way because of double meanings, which many, _many_ things have. Once again, if you don't understand anything, feel free to e-mail me. Gosh, one of these days, I'm going to have to hold a contest to see who can get the most double meanings and symbolism that I have in my fics ^.~  
  
Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!!  
  
  
"blah." People speak  
-- uh...scene switch  
  
--  
  
~I'm so green, it's really amazing,  
I'm so clean, too bad I can't get all the dirt off of me,  
I'm so sane, it's driving me crazy...  
It's so strange-I can't believe it feels just like I'm falling for the first time.~  
*~*'Falling for the First Time,' by the Bare Naked Ladies  
  
--  
  
The hinges creaked as Scott Summers swayed slightly to and fro on the swing set. A squealing screech like a wounded animal crackled through the silence, forcing him to dip his head and muffling his ears with his hunched shoulders. He flexed his fingers, gripping tightly onto the frigid rusted metal of the swing's chains, biting his lip as he willed himself to shrink into the turgid darkness of the night. The evening breeze bit sharply into his skin like a razor of ice, and he pressed his cheek against the side of his upraised arm, which was winded about one of the chains.  
  
He could remember the look in his eyes. He could remember seeing through the cherry red of his visor and watching in horror as darkened splotches of scarlet-black liquid puddling on the cement floor. He could remember running towards the man and freezing at the sight of the charred gaping hole in his chest. He remembered Shadowcat's panicked cry, "Oh my God, he killed him!" He remembered contemplating the act of gouging out his own eyes, as Oedipus did when he discovered he himself had committed the crime of killing his father.   
  
It had been a mistake. The rest of the X-men had been understanding; had tried to comfort him as he stared unseeingly into a blur of red. He had wanted to yell, wanted to tell them all to get the hell away from him; to scream that he'd kill them and they had to get away before he hurt them. They never listened, and he hated them for it. He hated himself.   
  
Scott let his feet drag in the gravel, hearing the pebbles slide beneath the soles of his feet. He felt a tremor surge through him, belying the cold numbness of his mind. It's always like this, he thought glumly, whenever the going gets tough, my mind shuts down.  
  
Hiding from the pain? taunted a bitter voice from the back of his head, from the back of his life. Always running, hiding, trying to get away--you coward. The chestnut-haired boy cringed and curled deeper into himself, wishing he could forget the emptiness, the dark echoing silence of his thoughts, the twisted cruelty of voices still remembered from the long-faded past.  
  
Sometimes he wondered what it would be like if he had never been found by Professor Xavier, if he was still relying on himself--if he was still being abused and tread over like some useless _thing_. What would it be like? Would he be lying facedown in a rusted gutter, his life bleeding slowly out of him? Would he be stumbling through grimy streets, selling his soul, his body? Nothing's set in stone, Scott told himself bitterly, except for the one fact that that man would still be alive.   
  
Yes, he'd be alive, but Scott Summers would be dead. He would be dead and lost and forgotten...back to square one. Back to feeling the filthy dirt coating his every thought like hope-sucking leeches, back to staring at himself in the mirror through a haze of blurred red, back to running out of jaded tears, back to silent sobs in the too-warm nights. Back to plotting his own death every other second. Back to smiling thinly and never meaning it. Back to Hell.  
  
That was him. Scott fuckin' Summers with the blank eyes, blank face, and blank thoughts. A slate wiped clean of all the cleanliness, scribbled on with the blood-red markers of failure and shame, scratched with long gouges by the warped claws of society's most hated monsters, still lurking in the depths of whatever cement nightmare that was the city. A purgatory for the useless, the insanely wounded, the hopeless and ones with hollow hearts. A purgatory with no redemption, just endless carnelian lamps and blazing infernos, slowly eating away at what humanity was left, what life, hope, vivacity still clung to the bony skeleton of what used to be a heart. That was him. Oh, that was him... Scott Summers programmed to run, to hide, to _be_ no one, nobody, no_thing_. Scott Summers--programmed to kill. God, he hated himself.   
  
And now, "Scott Summers," the killer, the shameful, was on the same team as a bunch of pansy-ass naive kids who he was probably going to accidentally kill. Let's see them forgive that, he thought snidely, fighting back tears he'd thought he had forgotten how to shed. Let's see them forgive me if I blast 'ro's nephew to bits, or if I vaporize Kitty's lungs with one motion.   
  
Before, it had made him so happy that these people trusted him not to lose control, not to hurt anyone except when it was necessary. They _trusted_ him. And now he wished they didn't. When people trusted, they left themselves open. When people trusted, they don't expect a dagger to slip between their rips, to slice through the frayed edges of their fragile string of life--to pluck the future's autumn bud before it even began to blossom.   
  
Idiots, Scott thought sadly, why the hell did you forgive me? That man was innocent. He was _normal_. Leave me here alone to hate myself...why won't you hate me, too?  
  
The crunching of gravel informed him of someone approaching, and his fingers clutched tighter at the biting chill of the frigid chains. Lowering his chin, he prayed that whoever it was wouldn't notice his eyes were closed--then again, he really didn't care.  
  
"Who is it?" He called, his voice sounding like a single droplet of water, skimming the sides of a hematite pond. That just made him hate himself more. Maybe they'll see my eyes closed, Scott thought, almost feeling hopeful, maybe they'll see and they'll figure out there's something wrong with me. Maybe they'll hate me and call me a freak. Maybe they'll kill me...  
  
Against the darkness of his eyelids, he could envision himself lying broken and lifeless, and oddly felt gratified. The squeak of hinges permeated the sphere of inky blackness that Scott had shrouded himself with, and he turned towards the sound. Trying to distinct any identification, he stilled, drawing in a quick breath. After a few moments of silence, he heard a familiar yet strangely different voice ask quietly, "What's up?"  
  
Who is that? Scott wondered vaguely, his chaotic emotions distorting all reality of sound. Instead of responding, he just shrugged, not bothering to disguise nor project his despondency. He heard a low chuckle, then, "The X-geeks givin' you shit, Summers?"  
  
Scott started, his grip around the chains tightening reflexively as he realized who had just sat down beside him. Surprise soon faded, though, as emotional exhaustion forced his mind into numbness, and he asked simply, wearily, "What do you want, Lance?"  
  
A few leaves skittered by, and Scott found himself wondering distantly when it had become so windy. He wasn't even paying attention when Lance answered with a question of, "Why're _you_ out here?" The usually bespectacled mutant took a minute to gather his thoughts.   
  
Lance didn't sound threatening, but a tiny voice nagged that he was the enemy, that he could only be up to no good. Stereotypical. Just then, he hated that voice. Scott generally listened to his paranoia in regard to the Brotherhood, but he found the weight of insurmisable weariness drape itself about him and he didn't care anymore. Yet what he replied with was not controlled by the fatigue, but by some wariness that had been built into him, inherent of his earlier years.  
  
"It's none of your business," Scott said hoarsely, praying, for some reason, that Lance would ask again, if only so the dark-haired boy could torment him. 'Your greatest strength,' he remembered someone telling him, 'lies not in your mutant ability, but in your own sense of moral.' He couldn't remember who it was, but that phrase had always made him feel better. Now, though...What a load of shit, Scott thought, feeling broken, shattered, disillusioned.  
  
He heard a soft snort and then Lance's nonchalant response, "Fine, then." Scott felt almost disappointed, and receded into himself again, pushed by the tide of shame, guilt. The silence that trickled between them was almost comfortable, and it would've surprised him if he hadn't been so absorbed with the grief festering within him. Scott felt himself spiraling out of control, felt the swirling chaotic emotions and made no sense of any of it. Abruptly, he demanded into the quiet, "Why the hell are you here? What do you want from me?!"  
  
The creaking of hinges of the swing beside him belied the languid motion of the other boy. However, the silence was deafening and the blankness of the swing next to him seemed too empty to be filled. At first, Scott thought that Lance had left and was disgusted that he had to struggle with a wave of loneliness. Get it together, he told himself sharply, he's the least of your worries. The swing stopped moving, and Scott was wondering if the wind had died down when he heard Lance say quietly and unhurriedly, "You're the unofficial leader of the X-men."  
  
Scott frowned, trying to think the out-of-the-blue statement through. Before he could reply, though, he heard the other continue, "Leaders make mistakes."  
  
The chestnut-haired boy froze, feeling the wintry fingers of dread and anxiety surge through him, grazing his heart, soul, mind. All the defenses and weaknesses and loves and hates of the past roared back with the simple yet mind-boggling fact: He knew.   
  
He knows!! How can he know?! Scott thought, panicked. He had wanted Lance to understand, to know, to hate him--but now faced with the situation, he no longer knew what to do, to feel, to think.   
  
"Mistakes," Scott repeated slowly, his fingers clenching even tighter about the biting metal chains. "What...do _you_ know about _mistakes_?" He bit out, his voice harsh. Scott jumped slightly as in the next moment, he felt heavy hands grip his arms, and leaned back as he heard Lance hiss angrily,  
  
"What do I know? I know what it's like to kill someone and then lie there for four some fucking days--in the dark. Blinded. I _know_ what it's like to have to lead a bunch of kids who're countin' on you to keep the brutal truth from running them through and over and in. Maybe my team knows about reality, but that doesn't mean they've gone through as much fuckin' _shit_ as I have. You understand that, Summers?" A quick, infuriated shake, "I've been there--you ain't the only one who's had to go through this, so get the fuck _off_ your high chair!"   
  
Scott tried to jerk away, unnerved and reflexively furious by the other boy's heated tirade, but Lance's grasp tightened and he continued, his voice unrecognizable, "You killed that man, didn't you, Summers?"  
  
Time stopped. For the second time that night, Scott stilled, feeling his mind shut down at the word "you" and "killed" in the same sentence--feeling a familiar ache in his throat and chest. And as he stayed unmoving, completely in shock, he listened to the low rasp of Lance's voice beside his ear, feeling the warm breath play against his skin, feeling the wavering chill beneath.  
  
"You killed that man and you just can't stand it." A harsh chuckle made its way to his ears as cool air replaced the warmth of Lance's touch on his forearms, and Scott was jolted back to reality, self-loathing replaced by disturbed surprise. He sat motionless, willing the wind to not draw sound from the rustling tress, the squeaking hinges--if only so he could hear Lance's breathing; if only to reassure himself that the chocolate-haired senior was still there.  
  
Pathetic, the sniveling voice whispered from its corner in his mind, having to rely on the enemy? Absolutely pathetic.  
  
"I'm almost jealous," He heard, and Scott wondered why Lance was speaking so freely, how Lance could subconsciously time his interruptions so perfectly so as to pull him away from destructive thought. He wondered who Lance was.  
  
"that you still feel like that, I mean."  
  
A soft whining creak of sandalwood boards alerted Scott that his companion had taken perch on the old seesaw beside the swing set.   
  
"I've stopped feeling remorse. I had to."  
  
Lance drummed his fingers, a crisp, muted sound of dulled rhythm, reaching Scott's ears through the balmy night. It sounded clear, knifing through the darkness between them like a crystal dove. Scott listened, and heard the even beats, the unintentional melody that one might draw from the timed rhythms and phrases.  
  
"You know--killing off emotion is necessary sometimes. Most of the time."  
  
Scott nodded absently, still struggling to comprehend why Lance was being...amiable. After some more strangely accommodating silence, he called quietly,   
  
"Lance?"  
  
The other boy made a questioning sound in response, and so he continued, "How'd you know?"  
  
Silence, then the rattling of chains as Lance reclaimed his seat beside him. "Todd told me...we were staking it out." Vague, yet Scott understood what he meant. He listened to Lance swing idly, gray-white pebbles clattering out of the way of his dragging feet. Scott worried his bottom lip with pearly teeth, not asking the question that came to mind as he felt the taut hesitation wrapping thick bands of metaphorical iron about them.   
  
"I thought you'd want someone to talk to--but I guess you don't." The silent boy cringed at the sound of the scowl in Lance's voice, feeling the previous desperation slam into him full force once again. I _need_ to talk, he realized, and his logical mind panicked as he tried to come up with a sensible reason to yell for Lance to come back, to talk, to help.  
  
Scott heard the crunching of gravel that had accompanied the boy's arrival as they heralded his actions--standing slowly, walking away, footsteps heavy and deliberate, breathing shallow and regulated. He heard the sifting of pebbles grate against each other under Lance's heels. He heard what hope for relief from the guilt of life surrender itself a little bit more with each step. He heard himself...whispering into the awkwardness, "I killed him."  
  
The silence afterward was far more deafening than any roaring riptide, howling whiplash, breaking hearts, minds. Scott shifted uncomfortably, hands clasped tightly. The swing wavered slightly with the motion of him releasing his white-knuckled grasp on the chains.   
  
"I know." Lance's voice was surprisingly close, yet all Scott could hear was the dubious silence from his cynical mind. He wished he could open his eyes, but knew that if he did, his vision would swim in a frightening blaze of red from deadly scorching beams within. It was as if his soul was lashing out against the vertical society, staining his vision a bloody scarlet, emblazoning the tragedy, the anger, the pain in his recoiling mind. One side of him pleaded, 'I don't want to hurt anyone,' while the other snarled back, 'Deal with it, like you've dealt with all the other shit in life--they've dug their own graves.' And then his warring mind rebelled against his emotional logic, his conscience, his humanity, and agreed sibilantly, 'They've dug their own grave, indeed...now let's bury them'--bury them so deep that Mother Earth will choke on their loathsome, sinful bodies, so deep that the sky will forget they've existed, so deep that Hell will torment them forever and ever and ever...  
  
"Hell," He whispered aloud, "They'd be back in society..." with all of Hell's brimming fires, Scott thought, to torture them the most, Satan would send them back up here. Back here.  
  
"What?" The boy with the closed eyes and closed, burdened heart turned towards the sound of Lance's voice, murmuring quietly,  
  
"I _killed_ him," Scott smiled bitterly to himself, his jaw trembling slightly from the cold--whether within or without was uncertain, even to him.  
  
"How do you deal with that? How do you _deal_ with the fact that you ruined someone's life?" Leaning his forehead against the frosted chains, Scott closed his eyes, waiting anxiously for the answer he wasn't sure was coming or not.  
  
"...You don't forget. Ever." The words held a certain chill that numbed his mind even more. What? Abject horror permeated all other emotions as Scott strained to make sense of the response.  
  
"Because when you forget, _that_ is the only time when you are truly guilty."  
  
The wind brushed by him like some living thing, and the 'unofficial leader of the X-men' stared into the darkness of his eyelids, his mind, wondering why what Lance had said made sense.  
  
"If a soldier killed someone accidentally in war...say, his commander, would that commander blame him? Would one who was freed from the tragedy of war lay all the strife of murder on his young charge's shoulders?" Scott felt the warmth of Lance's hand clasping his shoulder and cursed himself for the diamond pinpricks in his darkened visage that he knew were tears.  
  
"Well?" He could sense the amusement tingeing the other boy's voice.  
  
"I...I _guess_ not...bu--"  
"No buts," Lance carefully pressed something smooth, folded, cool into Scott's hands. My shades, he realized, and opened his mouth to ask where he'd manage to get them from, but thought better of speaking. Instead, he turned away and slowly slipped them on, opening his eyes with equal deliberation and staring out into the stark redness. Tranquility splashed with blood. He closed his eyes again, not wishing to see the watery cerise. After a few moments, he reopened his eyes, feeling more composed. Upon turning around, though, Scott suddenly found himself sprawled on the ground, his cheek bone stinging with a sort of glistening pain, like live electricity.  
  
He stared up at Lance, too startled to feel angry, too hurt to feel numb, and wondered distantly what kind of picture they painted--one boy wearing red sunglasses at night, lying akimbo in the gravel and nursing a bruised cheek with one hand; another boy, dark-haired with enigmatic eyes, standing above the other and shaking his lax hand a few times before reaching out and offering it to the other.   
  
Smirking faintly, Lance leaned into the chains of the swing, drawling quietly, "That's for hating yourself so much."  
  
Scott blinked. Okay...that makes no sense, he thought, rubbing gingerly at the sore spot, wincing slightly as a shard of pain rifled through him. However, remarkably enough, he felt...better.  
  
Ignoring the proffered hand, Scott hopped up lightly, asking without much real hostility, "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Lance's smile broadened and he leaned back against a pole, "You were sittin' there angsting away about yourself, Summers. Didn't need to be a telepath or counselor extraordinaire to tell you were..." He quirked an eyebrow, hooking one thumb in a beltloop, "You were down. And I offered to help you up." With one expansive gesture, Lance flung one arm out, grinning a lazy grin with all the craziness that was Lance, yet managing to explain ever-so-calmly, "But you got up on your own."  
  
Scott was stunned. Staring at the grinning dark-haired boy, he wondered dumbly how this could be the same guy who got a D on the English test on symbolism and metaphorical concepts.  
  
"I..."  
  
Shaking his head with a chuckle, Lance brushed past him lightly, saying quietly yet somehow darkly, "Check you later, Summers."  
  
He felt like he should've been outraged and heroically pissed off...but he couldn't bring himself to feel that way. Staring after Lance as he sauntered away, Scott Summers had a startling epiphany. And through it all, the only thing he could think was that he wished he could've seen Lance before.  
  
  
  
tbc  
  
~When you close your eyes and imagine the world, you can almost feel the colors, seeping into your skin--their warmth, their essence, the very same glow that you might experience from emotions within. When you can't remember those colors, though, you strain yourself, but no longer can you feel those magnificent hues...what do you do then? What do you do when you can't experience that life?   
  
You close your eyes, and listen.~  
  
*~*Naisumi (Me ^.~)  



End file.
